


Do You Think Of Me?

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Bar Wench Emma Swan, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian comes hom unexpectedly early and surprises Emma right in the act of a little self-love...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Think Of Me?

The pressure of the wood against her spine would be almost painful, if she were focused enough to notice it. But all she feels is the glorious drag of his length inside her as he pulls out agonizingly slowly before he slides back in, deeply, skilfully dancing over that spot that has her see stars. She can't breathe, only pant, but she knows this can't be blamed on the uncomfortable corset she's wearing – the culprit is he, and he alone. Captain Hook in that damn red vest he's still wearing (he's only bothered to take off his coat and unlace his leather pants) and with the devastatingly dashing smirk on his face, a strand of wild black hair falling over his forehead, while he's lazily fucking her on his desk. And she still hasn't told him her name, which is why he's taken to call her “princess” with that amused undertone to his smooth baritone that makes her blood boil even more.

“You alright there, princess?” he asks mockingly after a particularly dirty grind of his hips has elicited a helplessly guttural moan from deep inside her throat.

“Can't you tell I'm enjoying myself?” she breathes and tightens the hold of her legs around his waist.

“Oh, I knew that already when you were on your knees and had those lovely lips wrapped around me,” he replies and runs his sinful tongue through his mouth, “you have the face of an angel, but the mouth of a wicked demon.” His voice drops a few nuances as he speaks, and she can feel it all the way down to her toes. Damn him, she needs him to speed up and wreck her, but instead, the bastard keeps her teetering on the verge of an orgasm that is about to blow her mind. As if he can sense it, he slows down even a bit more and bends forward, hovering over her. She wonders if he will make her beg. “So tell me, princess,” he drawls, “how do you want me to finish this – the gallant way or...” he pauses again and smirks down at her, the challenge evident, “the pirate way?”

With a quick move, she grabs him by his dangling necklace and tugs him down until their faces are only inches apart. “Well, we are on a pirate ship, right?” she replies mischievously and clenches her inner muscles around him to spur him on.

“Hmmm,” he hums, “if the lady insists...” Unexpectedly, he catches her hand and presses a hot kiss to the inside of her wrist, his scruff burning her delicate skin. Then he pulls her up into a sitting position and slides out of her, to which she gasps in surprise and in complaint. He chuckles at her needy sound, takes a half step back and pulls her with him, so that she's sliding off the edge of his desk and is standing in front of him now. He smirks again, a roguish glint in his eyes, and leans forward to whisper into her left ear. “Turn around and bend over the desk.” His voice is quiet and almost soft, but the commanding undertone makes it unmistakably plain who's in charge here. He lets go of her hand after running his thumb across her palm. A shiver trickles down her spine as she quickly glances at his mouth before slowly turning around, her head spinning and the blood rushing in her ears. She feels his lips brush against the shell of her ear and bites her own lower lip at his next words: “Get down on your elbows and spread your pretty legs for me, lass.”

The words and his low voice are music in her ears, and she obeys eagerly to his demand. She hasn't even properly settled down and is carefully placing her elbows on the old, scratched wood of the Captain's desk when she hears the rich rustle of fabric and feels the cool air against her bare upper legs as he slowly lifts her skirts. When they are draped around her waist and she's completely exposed to him, he runs his rough palm across the curve of her ass and hums in appreciation. The warm touch shoots bolts of desire right into her core.

“That's a good girl,” he murmurs, and she pushes her hips back at him imploringly to which he chuckles. “Patience, love,” he croons, “you'll get it soon enough.” He steps closer, so close, and his hot, hard flesh grazes along her ready entrance, making her moan and grasp the edge of the desk in anticipation of what's to come. The bastard is deliberately teasing her, and she loves every second of it. “Such a wanton girl,” he hums and slides into her just the tiniest bit, holding her firmly in place with his hand, keeping her from pushing back, “so eager.” She hisses in frustration, and he chuckles again. “The very wet dream of every princess, hm? Being bent over a desk and thoroughly ravished by a pirate until you can't walk properly. Isn't that right?” 

He slides in a little deeper, deliciously filling her again, and then stills, obviously waiting for an answer, and she curls her toes in her shoes. “Yes,” she presses through clenched teeth, a begging urge to her voice, “God, yes...”

“Yes, what, princess?” he demands.

“Yes, Captain!” she pants, and that same moment he forcefully slams home with a feral growl, making her cry out in an equal amount of relief and ecstasy. She doesn't get to breathe or adjust or anything, because he starts to drive into her relentlessly right away, just like she craved. She holds on to the desk firmly, pushing her hips back at him to meet each of his thrusts and increase the intensity of the breathtaking sensation. His fingers dig into her hip, and she knows she'll be bruised later, but she doesn't mind. Her head is swimming, and the skin at the base of her neck prickles, the delightful tingle crawling down her spine as she's indeed thoroughly ravished. The build-up is fast, and he picks up speed and force with each snap of his hips, well-placed pushes sending her right into heaven. Incoherent curses are dripping from her lips, mixing with the growls and filthy words coming from him, and she's almost there, almost...

“Bloody hell,” Killian's voice wakes her from her lustful haze, and Emma's eyes snap open to stare at him in shock and confusion...

***  
The sailing and fishing trip Killian and David have spontaneously decided on the previous day comes to an abrupt end when David calls home and finds out early in the morning that Neal has got the chicken pox and is in a fever. Despite Mary Margaret's affirmation that he doesn't need to interrupt his trip, he urges Killian to return to Storybrooke, feeling bad to enjoy himself with his mate while his wife is home with a sick infant. Somehow, Killian understands; he would probably do the same and hurry home to his family. Besides, it's not like he regrets getting home to his Swan earlier than planned.

When they reach the port again at eight in the morning, he sends David home right away because he can see his mate's impatience and eagerness to get to his wife and sick son. Killian moors the Jolly Roger properly and then walks home, picking up fresh rolls on the way. It's very convenient that it's Sunday and Emma isn't working, and that Henry is spending this week at Regina's – so everything points to a lazy Sunday morning in bed with breakfast and other enjoyable activities.

At home, Killian leaves the paper bag with the rolls in the kitchen and sneaks up the stairs quietly after hanging his pea coat on its hook behind the entrance door and leaving his shoes there – it's barely nine, and at that time Emma's normally still asleep if nobody disturbs her, and he doesn't want to wake her up. Well, he does intend to wake her up – but not in a rude way... he has other things in mind. When he reaches the top of the stairs and heads to the master bedroom, he hears her sigh in her sleep and smiles to himself in eager anticipation of kissing her awake from her slumber. As he's the early riser of them, it's mostly him waking her up, and he loves her in that state – barely awake, limbs lazy, eyes still heavy with sleep and skin warm... yet eager and ready for him in no time, sometimes even while she's still half asleep.

Slowly and quietly he opens the door to their bedroom that's only dimly lit, because the curtains are still closed and keep the sunlight and the view on the ocean locked outside. He hears another drawn-out sound while he sneaks inside, but this time it's more of a moan then a sigh, and his smile widens and becomes more mischievous, because he knows that kind of sound all too well, and it's music to his ears. As he's not the one eliciting that delicious noise of arousal from her throat, she must be having a really, really pleasant dream. He's witnessed that more than once – sometimes early in the morning when he was already awake, sometimes in the middle of the night, her needy moans waking him from his own sleep – and he never can resist the temptation of touching her on those occasions, and that never fails to have a pretty effect. When he runs his fingers across the curve of her breast or up her thigh, he mostly finds her peaks already pebbled and her core already slick. Usually, she wakes up when his lips close around one of her nipples, arching into his touch, or when he slips his fingers inside her panties, teasing the swollen bundle of nerves with his skilled thumb. One time, she was writhing and moaning his name and begging in her sleep until he carefully climbed on top of her and pushed the damp fabric of her panties aside to slowly sink into her, and only when he was fully buried inside, her eyes fluttered open, hazed with lust instead of sleep as he started moving. After that, he always suspected that perhaps she'd just feigned to be asleep, but he never asked her.

Right now, she repeats her moan, and it's even more urgent this time. It definitely indicates that she's having an erotic dream, and the thought of her warm body unconsciously ready for his ministrations under the covers makes heat course through his body and his pants grow tight.

Killian has walked a few steps into the room so that he can see the bed now, and the first thought going through his mind is that this dream must be not only very pleasant, but also very vivid, because he sees plenty of movement, the covers are thrown back, and she is literally thrashing around in her sleep. He frowns as he's taking in the scenery, trying to wrap his desire-fogged mind around what he sees: the way Emma's body is squirming on the crumpled sheets is nothing less than obscene, her long legs splayed wantonly and toes curled, her left hand is clutching the sheet while her right hand rests between her thighs, fingers dancing and playing over her most sensitive spot in a way that cannot be mistaken. From where he stands, he can clearly detect the dark stain on the soft grey cotton of her panties where they're soaked with the unmistakable proof of her arousal. His gaze drinks her in and wanders slowly up her lean figure, and if he thought there couldn't be a more erotic sight than this, he's proven wrong the moment he sees her face – eyes closed, mouth opened in a silent moan or plea, tiny beads of perspiration shimmering on her forehead like precious pearls as she's completely lost in abandon to the pleasure she brings herself. The moans come in shorter distance now and grow a little more urgent, the rhythm of her fingers changes from lazy to faster, hips rutting a little.

Another almost pleading moan pearls from her lips, and he knows he's doomed. Inevitably, his cock springs to life in his too tight pants, and his hand unconsciously wanders to the bulge it's forming and palms it firmly in search for friction. All the blood seems to have left his brain, and his lips move on their own accord as he murmurs: “Bloody hell...”

Emma is so startled she almost jumps but then freezes mid-move when her eyes fly open and find his, and he can see that she's been miles away, worlds perhaps. For the fraction of a second he wonders who she was with, but the thought fades before it can really form, because he sees shock shimmer in her eyes and a flush of embarrassment tinge her cheeks, threatening to replace the beautiful shade of pink that always accompanies her arousal. He'll be damned if he lets her feel bad for having been caught in the beautiful act of pleasuring herself.

“Don't stop on my account,” he says quickly, and he has difficulties forming coherent words. Her eyes widen a little more, if that's even possible, but her embarrassment is mixed with something else, curiosity perhaps, and he runs his tongue along his teeth before tilting his head and adding in a rough voice: “Please.”

For e few moments they just look at each other like frozen in time, and they do both look a little ridiculous: Emma with her hand between her legs, her fingertips awkwardly glued to her panties, and Killian with his palm pressed against the growing bulge in his jeans, but then the air of awkwardness between them fades away and is replaced by challenge, heat and lust.

It takes only a few seconds for Emma's shock to subside, because what the fuck, this is Killian, her soul mate and True Love, and there is nothing she needs to be ashamed of in front of him – something his reaction has clearly proved when he urged her to carry on. A quick glance confirms her suspicion that he might have been surprised by what he caught her doing, but he's certainly far from shocked, on the contrary he seems fairly intrigued, to say the least. Judging by the way his fingers curl around his obviously hardened length through the denim of his pants, the sight of her playing with herself turns him on. Her gaze wanders back to his face, and the ravenous look in his eyes sets her aflame again, sending a fresh hot wave of lust through her veins, and if he enjoys the show then fuck she will give him something to rejoice at. She observes him closely as she starts to move her fingers again, tentatively at first but quickly getting back into a neat rhythm that will have her worked up again in no time. A smug smile curves her lips at the wrecked expression on his face, and she thinks that this – the man she loves watching her pleasuring herself and being unable to keep his hand from himself while doing so – is so much better than the fantasy she indulged in before. No imaginary version of Killian Jones, no matter how devilishly sexy and irresistibly animalistic she paints him in her mind, could ever top the real deal. She bites her lip and pushes her panties aside to slide two fingers under the fabric and dip them slowly inside herself. Before her eyes flutter shut in growing ecstasy she sees his fingers deftly pop open the top button of his jeans. 

Emma doesn't even bother to try and conjure the mental image of the dangerously dashing pirate Captain again, because she has the original right here by her side. She hears the dry rustle of fabric, and the knowledge of what he's doing – and the mental image of him wrapping his strong fingers around himself as he watches her, stroking the steely length underneath that silky skin – has her lips curl into a knowing smile and her breathing go heavy.

“Talk to me,” she pants and keeps her eyes closed while her hips start to move in the rhythm of her hand.

Killian has undone the buttons of his jeans and pushed them down his lean hips just far enough to liberate his throbbing cock from its confines. When it springs free with a soft popping sound, he breathes out a sigh of relief and takes the matter in his own hand, not taking his eyes off Emma for a second. Her beauty and her grace – yes, grace – stuns him time and time again. Her elegantly curved hips rock softly against her palm as she moves her fingers inside herself in a slow, fluent motion. He wraps his hand around his base, squeezing the hard flesh beneath the hot skin before he languidly starts to pump himself, his rhythm mirroring Emma's. A boiling knot of fire forms deep inside his belly as he strokes the pad of his thumb over the head, spreading the little bead of moisture he finds there, the sensitive skin tingling with delight.

When he hears her hoarse demand, at first he doesn't believe his ears and stares at her in total open-mouthed bewilderment. He'd never have imagined that she'd let him watch, allow him a glimpse of that most private, intimate moment where she's rendering herself completely vulnerable; let alone that she'd include him in that act, grant him permission to participate in any way. But then, Emma Swan has yet to cease to surprise, to impress him. He licks his lips; suddenly they feel as dry as sandpaper.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs and revels in the tiny, barely perceptible flutter of Emma's eyelashes in response to the sound of his voice, “you're so gorgeous like that, love. Don't stop.”

She has no intention to anyway. A pale shade of pink tinges her chest, spreading across the swell of her breasts peaking out of her tank top and rising up to her cheeks. It indicates arousal mixed with the tiniest bit of embarrassment, but she lets go of it and lets him see it, all of her, not trying to hide anything. Her heels are pressed into the mattress to give her leverage as she rocks her hips to meet the moves of her hand. As if she knows exactly what he craves, even in the haze of her own lust, she lets her knees fall open a little more to give him full sight, and it's a bloody vision. Damn, he's seen her touch herself on occasion, when she's on top of him, rising like a goddess, and brings her hand to where they're joined to push herself to the edge even faster. But this... watching her fingers glide into herself where she's all pink and swollen and wet, again and again, almost knocks the breath out of his lungs. She's beautiful and bold, worshipping herself, yet all there on display for him. She works a little faster now, her rhythm inevitably increasing whereas Killian keeps his own moves steady, but slow, just-so teetering on the verge of bliss. He's not going to miss one bit of what he's privy to here, his focus is on drinking her in completely, and he's not going to be distracted from that by bringing himself to the edge too soon.

“There,” he croons, “that feels great, so amazing...” 

Her breath is coming in soft little puffs now, and she brings her other hand up to cup her left breast through the soft jersey and circles the pebbled nipple with her thumb. Her tongue darts out to sweep over her bottom lip, and then she pulls it between her teeth and arches her back a little more.

He groans, almost overwhelmed by the sight, and unconsciously tightens his own grip a bit, still able to keep the pace slow along the whole length of his shaft without teasing the sensitive head too much. “More, Emma,” he encourages, “make yourself feel really good, come on, love, you're almost there...”

A deep hum rumbles in her throat, and the tiny noises she's making – he knows them all too well. She really is almost there, and he's endlessly thankful for it, because it's not like he'll be able to hold back much longer without snapping. He allows himself a few faster strokes and closes his eyes for a second, but that isn't a good idea, because hearing her sighs grow more urgent makes him only want to lunge forward, snatch her hand away and bury himself inside her to the hilt, ravish her until she begs for mercy. But this is not happening, not now – this is way too gorgeous to interrupt, and with all the willpower he can muster, Killian forces himself to open his eyes again and slows down his hand.

Emma's body has stopped squirming and is rather tense now, her hips pushing against her hand in a determined rhythm, faster and faster, her left hand tweaking and tugging at her nipple. 

He swallows hard. “That's it,” he urges her, voice thick and gravelly, “ride those fingers, you know you want to. Don't hold back.”

At his last words, her body goes rigid and bucks from the mattress while she presses her palm flat against her nub, fingers still deep inside. A tremor runs through her limbs, a ragged breath escapes her lips, and then she falls down flat on her back again.

Killian's eyes are glued to her, his own hand almost stilled now, and wrecked and disheveled as she is when she comes down from her high, she looks like a fine piece of art, like a goddess to him. Her chest is still heaving, but it's slowing down, and after a few instants she opens her eyes and looks for him; when her gaze finds his, she blinks and smiles, and for a moment time stands still for him as he takes in all the uninhibited love and trust displayed there. It shoots through his mind that this is one of the most intimate moments they ever shared.

Emma shifts and makes a move to wipe her fingers on her tank top, and in the blink of an eye Killian snaps out of his haze, but it's not a deliberate thing. Before he even knows what he's doing, he's by her side and, letting go of himself, grabs her wrist.

She frowns in surprise. “What are you–”

But she never gets to finish her sentence, because he pulls her hand to his lips and sucks her index and middle finger into his mouth, his eyes still fixed on hers intently. She's mesmerized by his magnetic look and speechless by the shamelessness of his move as he swirls his tongue around her fingers and licks them clean, but recovers quickly and decides to return the favor. Leaning towards the edge of the bed, she reaches for him with her free hand and wraps her fingers around his length that's being neglected, but still very lively bobbing in the direction of her face. She squeezes it lightly and enjoys the twitch she gets in return and Killian's gasp. 

He releases her fingers from his mouth and stutters: “Emma, you... you don't have to...”

She tilts her head back to look up at him and smiles. “Stop talking now,” she tells him a little breathlessly and lunges forward to close her lips around him. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” she hears him groan in defeat and presses a smile into his feverish skin as she slides her lips down his flesh. 

She's thrilled to feel how hard he is under that smooth skin and how madly the prominent vein at his underside is throbbing; watching her make herself come undone must have wrecked him immensely, and she knows it's not going to take much to make him fall apart, too. With both her hands free now, she reaches around him with her right and grabs his ass firmly, pulling him even closer and signalizing him that he doesn't have to hold back. As he's already so far gone, she doesn't waste time with teasing or going slow on him. So, she sets a murderous pace with her lips and tongue, his heavy breathing spurring her on, and soon enough he starts to rut his hips lightly, very much like the Captain Hook of her earlier fantasy did when he took her mouth – he was a little less gentle though, and with a very determined pull at her hair. Even though the Captain – in her fantasies as much as he was in real life – always is a gentleman, she loves to imagine him a little more ruthless than Killian Jones. But also Killian's hand finds its way into her hair soon, fingers entangling in her already disheveled locks, while she sends him over the edge effortlessly. 

He's completely taken aback by her assault and doesn't even have time to realize what's happening. One moment ago his tongue curled around her fingers, her exquisite, tangy taste prolonging the awesome experience of observing her. The next moment he's completely at her mercy as she takes possession of him with her hands and mouth. In wonder and fascination he looks down at her swaying head, almost carefully combing his fingers through her hair and watches the dedicated expression on her angelic face as she pleasures him. He is unable to enjoy the vision for very long though, because soon he starts to see stars and feels the unmistakable prickle at the base of his back, right above of where she presses her hand on his buttock to pull him close so that she can take him in even deeper. Like electric shock waves, it runs up his spine and explodes behind his closed eyelids as he falls apart with a deep, feral groan.

It takes a few moments before the blood rushing in his ears starts to calm down a little, and when he opens his eyes to look down at her again, she smiles up at him nothing less than sweetly, tenderly. Her right arm is still wrapped around his hips, her fingertips caressing the patch of skin right below the dimples on his lower back. Only with huge effort, he finds his voice again.

“You are... amazing,” he says and feels like that's so lame, but he simply can't think of appropriate words to express what he feels for her, but she doesn't seem to mind – on the contrary, she seems to actually enjoy seeing Killian Jones, the epitome of eloquence, at a loss for words.

“I know,” she replies and presses a kiss to the tender skin of his groin, then she slaps him lightly on his butt. “Take off those clothes and come to bed now.”

She doesn't have to tell him twice – actually, he's quite eager to lay down, because his knees feel pretty weak. Quickly, he peels off his jeans, shrugs out of his vest and shirt and gratefully sinks down on the mattress beside her. With a sated and self-satisfied smile curving her beautiful and talented mouth, Emma pulls the sheets up to cover them before she tucks herself to his side. For a few moments they just lie there snuggled up to each other, and she runs her fingers up and down his side.

After a minute or so, Killian shifts a little and tucks his hand behind his head. “So... this is what's happening when I'm not home,” he states, his voice, still a little breathless, a mix of amusement and awe with a dash of curiosity.

Emma smiles to herself. “Sometimes.”

“Ah.” He scratches behind his ear. “Tell me, love... what is going through that fair head of yours when you... engage in that kind of activity?” His voice is curious, but also nonchalant – a little too much to sound really casual.

Emma turns her head to look at him and finds his eyes resting on her. “Oh... all different kind of things, actually,” she replies vaguely and winks cheekily, deliberately not answering what she knows is really on his mind.

“Ah...” he scratches behind his ear again – a clear sign of his nervousness – before he asks what's really got him curious: “And do you... do you think of me?”

She averts her eyes and bites her lip, trying to contain her amusement. Smug, drop-dead sexy Killian Jones, always so confident about his charms – he's human after all. “Most times,” she admits and turns her face away to hide her grin and press a kiss to his jaw, and she feels the nervous twitch there underneath the scruff.

“Mhm,” he grumbles impatiently, “and other times?”

“Well...” She shrugs and sits up, her face hidden from Killian's scrutiny. “It varies. Sometimes it's a plumber who lays some mean pipes, sometimes the hot bartender who offers me a really stiff drink in the back room..." She turns around again to look at him and grins at his slightly strained expression, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sometimes," she purrs, "it's the annoying noisy neighbor with the crisp accent and the talented tongue..." He narrows his eyes and tilts his head as he finally gets where she's aiming at. "But my favorite," she continues in a sultry voice and bats her eyelashes at him, "is the musician with the seductive voice who is a God at," she lifts her right hand and wiggles her fingers, "at playing the guitar solo."

A wide grin splits his face, and he quirks an eyebrow. "That's quite the variety to pick from, Swan," he remarks, recovered from his uncertainty and unable to hide his pleasure at her admission. Well, technically she hasn't admitted to anything yet, but he knows what she's saying – that she fantasizes about him, in any variation she can think of.

She shrugs. "Not that much, actually," she contradicts and shifts a little closer to him. "They have all one thing in common, you know."

"Do they, now?" he drawls, voice husky and low. "And what might that be?" 

She lets her fingers dance lightly across his chest, raking them through his chest hair, and whispers: "They all look and sound exactly like you."

He runs his sinful tongue through his mouth, eyes gleaming darkly. "What a coincidence..."

"I know, right?" She leans towards him and buries her nose in the nook where his neck meets his shoulder. "Sometimes it's just plain and simple Captain Hook, picking up a bar wench at his favorite tavern and showing her his... ship," she murmurs against his skin and blushes adorably when she tilts her head back again to look at him.

He raises his eyebrows in mock disapproval. “Plain and simple?” he echoes pointedly. “Did you really just call my dashing alter ego a mediocre bore?” 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Of course I did not,” she waves him off, “we both know you could never be boring in any way. No version of you.” That makes him smirk, and in response she smiles sweetly. "Now you tell me..."

"Tell you what?" he frowns.

She tilts her head to the side and looks at him inquiringly. "What do you think about when you do it?" She taps her index finger against his sternum. "And don't tell me that you don't do it. You like spending an awful lot of time in the shower." She wiggles her eyebrows teasingly.

“Oh well.” Killian scratches behind his ear (its tip has turned a tinge of pink) and huffs a little, slightly embarrassed laugh, but he's not the one to deny anything of a carnal nature. “I must admit, perhaps I am indeed a bit boring.” He tilts his head and fixes his intense, midnight blue stare on her eyes. “It's always the same blonde siren of my dreams,” he says, and she presses her lips together in a sincere smile at his words. “Whether she's beneath me, on top or in front of me, on her knees, her feet, or on her back.” He runs his fingers from her wrist up her arm, and she shivers a little. “And she has always my name on her lips,” he adds, his voice hoarse and thick, “sometimes she moans it, sometimes she screams it...” He twirls a strand of her hair around his fingers and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip. “Sometimes it's barely understandable because her mouth is pretty full, but it's always my name.” 

Emma laughs and launches herself at him, straddling him and kissing him soundly. “I like your fantasies,” she breathes against his lips.

“And I like yours,” he replies, his fingers tangling in her hair at the back of her head, “tell me...” he ruts his hips slightly upwards, eliciting a pretty sigh from her, “which one was it today?” 

“Today was different,” she smiles and runs her fingers along his collarbones, “you were there.” She kisses him again and rotates her hips on top of him like a lap dancer, and when his fingers dig into her waist he forgets what he was asking, and Emma doesn't remind him. He doesn't need to know every single one of her secrets... he doesn't need to know how that fantasy of hers ends. Maybe she'll let him find out one day, but today... today she's happy to know they created new memories worth fantasizing about.


End file.
